"You know the rest," he said, and his voice came to her oddly broken and unfamiliar. "I kept it from you. I couldn't bear the thought of your facing--that,--especially after--after the birth of--the child. Even when you found out I had tricked you in that native rig-out, I couldn't endure the thought of your knowing. I nearly killed myself that night. It seemed the only way. But Bernard stopped me. I told him the truth. He said I was wrong not to tell you. But--somehow--I couldn't." "Oh, I wish--I wish you had," she breathed. "Do you? Well,--I couldn't. It's hard enough to tell you now. You were so wonderful, so beautiful, and they had flung mud at you from the beginning. I thought I had made you safe, dear, instead of--dragging you down." "Everard!" Her voice was quick and passionate. She made a sudden effort and freed one hand; but he caught it again sharply. "No, you mustn't, Stella! I haven't finished. Wait!" His voice compelled her; she submitted hardly knowing that she did so. "It is over now," he said. "The fellow is dead. But, Stella,--he had found out--what I had found out. And he was on his way to you. He meant to--claim you." She shuddered--a hard, convulsive shudder--as if some loathsome thing had touched her. "But--I would never have gone back," she said. "No," he answered grimly, "you wouldn't. I was here, and I should have shot him. They saved me that trouble." "You were--here!" she said. "Yes,--much nearer to you than you imagined." Almost curtly he answered. "Did you think I would leave you at the mercy of those devils? You!" He stopped himself sharply. "No I was here to protect you--and I would have done it--though I should have shot myself afterwards. Even Bernard would have seen the force of that. But it didn't come to pass that way. It wasn't intended that it should. Well, it is over. There are not many who know--only Bernard, Tommy, and Ralston. They are going--if possible--to keep it dark, to suppress his name. I told them they must." His voice rang suddenly harsh, but softened again immediately. "That's all, dear--or nearly all. I hope it hasn't shocked you unutterably. I think the secret is safe anyhow, so you won't have--that--to face. I'm going now. I'll send--Peter--to light the lamp and bring you something to eat. And you'll undress, won't you, and go to bed? It's late." He made as if he would rise, but her hands turned swiftly in his, turned and held him fast. "Everard--Everard, why should you go?" she whispered tensely into the darkness that hid his face. He yielded in a measure to her hold, but he would not suffer himself to be drawn nearer. "Why?" she said again insistently. He hesitated. "I think," he said slowly "that you will find an answer to that question--possibly more than one--when you have had time to think it over." "What do you mean?" she breathed. "Must I put it into words?" he said.